by L. L. Soares
“Those phobias kept you from harm.”
Anna’s brows turned down and her lips tightened. She took a deep breath before speaking. “They also made me a laughingstock at school. Other kids got toys at Christmas. I got holiday sweaters and warnings to watch out or the Yule Cat would eat me. Other kids got to trick-or-treat. I had to stay inside so the spirits of the dead wouldn’t steal my soul.”
Anders opened his mouth but his daughter cut him off, her expression as sharp and cold as the icicles hanging from the gutters outside. “Listen to me. My kids aren’t going to grow up that way. And if you can’t abide by my rules, then maybe next year you shouldn’t come here for Christmas.”
With a final glare, Anna stood and left the room, leaving Anders speechless.
Not see the family at Christmas? But they were all he had left, with Willa lost to cancer and Johann, Anna’s brother, killed in Vietnam. The very thought of it drove a spike through his chest and made him want to reach for his heart pills. Why couldn’t Anna see he only had the best intentions? If only she’d get past her own fears, her anger.
These are different times, Anders. Willa’s voice. How often had she said that to him when she was alive? Different times, yes. But the old dangers still existed. He knew it, even if Willa had never believed. Of course, she’d been born in the United States, raised in a city. My family left those things behind us when they came to this country, she’d always say. You should too. You no longer live in the Black Forest.
No, he didn’t live in the Schwarzwald anymore, but that meant nothing. The Holly King and his vile creatures could appear anywhere. Just because the Wild Hunt favored the cold lands of Northern Europe didn’t guarantee safety in Pennsylvania, where winters could get mighty cold as well.
But Anna would never consider that possibility. She’d outgrown the old stories despite how he’d tried to raise her. Gone to college, where they’d taught her about science and turned the legends of her people into fairy tales. And her husband, who’d grown up with stories of jolly old Santa and Rudolph and kindly elves, couldn’t even imagine a dark side to the holidays. No, they would never believe.
Let’s hope they never have to.
Anders pushed himself out of the chair, his old bones creaking and popping, and headed for the guest room. He still had things to do before bed. Anna and Paul might not believe, but he still did. Perhaps he couldn’t tell stories to the children anymore.
That didn’t mean he couldn’t do other things to keep them safe.
“You know, you were kind of hard on him.”
Anna Willis sighed and put down her book. She’d been expecting Paul to say something about the argument that had taken place earlier. He wouldn’t be the man she loved if he hadn’t.
“Yeah, I know. I’ll apologize in the morning. But you can’t imagine what it was like growing up in that house.”
“You’re right, I can’t. But I’ve heard his stories. Some of them are pretty dark.”
“Dark isn’t the word for it. My father ruined every holiday with his stupid superstitions. Every single, goddamned holiday. Christmas in the Bach household wasn’t about Santa or parties or presents. Instead, we got tales of the Krampus, who wears red-and-black leather and hunts unwary souls during the nights before Christmas, riding through towns on a giant deer with his wild hounds by his side. And don’t forget the Yule Elf, who spied on you to make sure you weren’t lazy.”
“I’m sure he didn’t mean any harm. My grandparents used to tell us all sorts of crazy fairy tales too. Some of them were damn scary. Kept me up all night.”
“Did your parents tell you that the Catholic Church made up Santa so people would forget the old ways?”
“That’s actually true,” Paul said.
“I don’t care if it’s true. You’re not supposed to tell little kids that you grew up in the Black Forest surrounded by spirits and demons.”
Paul propped himself on one arm and gave her one of his half smiles. When he spoke, the minty smell of mouthwash filled the space between them.
“Those were different times. Your father did the best he could, especially after coming to a new country. He put a roof over your head and food on the table. That’s more than a lot of kids can say.”
A pang of guilt dug into Anna’s stomach, joining the one already embedded there by her earlier overreaction to her father. He was right, as usual.
“I know I shouldn’t complain,” she said, placing her hand over his. “But I can’t help it. Maybe nightmares and getting teased at school aren’t the worst things that can happen, but they sure as hell weren’t fun. And I don’t want our kids growing up frightened to go to bed at night. There’s enough in this world to be afraid of. They don’t need sick, twisted holiday stories to make things worse.”
“Hey, it’s cool. I’m on your side. All I’m saying is maybe banning him from Christmas is overdoing it a bit.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Good night, baby.”
“Night.” Anna turned the light off and snuggled down farther into the covers, the twin daggers of her guilt digging even deeper into her guts. She’d gone overboard. And she would apologize in the morning.
Unless my kids wake up screaming at 3:00 a.m. Then he can deal with them. And me.
Jake Willis came awake in his bed with a gasp. He’d been sure a pair of giant, green eyes hovered over him. The eyes of the Yule Cat. Then the details of the bedroom became clear and he understood it had just been a bad dream, that the giant cat hadn’t been chasing him through the streets, ready to tear him apart and swallow the bloody pieces. What he’d imagined were glowing eyes were just the matching Charlie Brown night-lights across the room.
A low moan made him jump, thinking maybe he hadn’t been dreaming after all. But it was only Nick, tossing and turning on his bed, caught up in his own dream. A second later, Nick’s eyes opened and he sat up. “No!”
Jake watched the terror fade from his brother’s face, replaced by relief. “I had a nightmare too,” Jake whispered.
Nick looked over at him. “The Yule Cat?”
Jake nodded. “He was gonna eat me.”
“Me too.”
Neither of them spoke. Then Jake got up and sat on his brother’s bed. “I don’t think I can go back to sleep.”
“Me either.”
Another pause. Jake’s stomach gurgled.
“I want some cookies.”
Nick smiled. “Cookies are good. But I’ve got a better idea.”
“What?”
“You saw all those bags Mom and Dad came home with. I’ll bet they had presents in them. Wanna see what they got us?”
“I don’t know.” Jake frowned. “We’re not supposed to. And I really want some cookies.”
“We can do both. C’mon.” Nick pushed past his brother and stood. Jake hesitated for a second and then joined him.
After quickly donning the sweaters and jeans they’d been wearing earlier, and checking to make sure the lights were off in their parents’ room, they tiptoed their way down the hall and then descended the stairs, careful to avoid any spots where the floor had a tendency to squeak. It wasn’t the first time they’d made a midnight raid on the kitchen, and they reached the living room faster and quieter than any burglar could have done.
The raspy sounds of snoring coming from the guest room told them their grandfather was fast asleep.
“Cookies,” Jake said, pointing at the kitchen.
“Presents first,” Nick countered. “We can get the cookies after. If we get caught in the kitchen now, Mom and Dad will make us go back to bed and we’ll never get to the presents.”
“Okay. Where should we start?”
“The basement.”
Their slippers shushing on the carpet, the twins crossed the living room, stopping just long enough to pick up and shake the two brightly wrapped boxes u
nder the Christmas tree, boxes that hadn’t been there earlier. The gifts bore matching tags, one To Jake and the other To Nick, both signed with the illegible scrawl they deciphered as From Opa.
“Another stupid sweater,” Jake whispered.
“Lame. C’mon, the good stuff has to be downstairs.”
At the bottom of the basement stairs, Nick flicked the lights on, revealing the long space of the main area, which their father liked to call his hangout. A pool table occupied the center of the room. To one side sat a cabinet that doubled as a bar, brown and green bottles occupying its shelves. Past the pool table, a dartboard hung on the wall and two couches sat in front of a wooden television cabinet. A green shag rug covered most of the floor and a lava lamp sat atop the TV.
It only took a few minutes of searching to reveal the complete absence of any gifts.
“Nothing,” Jake said, peering under the couches.
“Nothing,” Nick repeated, his head inside the cabinet under the bar.
“Let’s try the laundry room.” But a single glance told them that the small, square utility space contained no surprises except for a fat, brown spider that had somehow survived the first half of winter.
“Now what?” Jake asked.
“Now we get some cookies.” They returned to the main room, neither of them talking. In the silence, the humming of the fluorescent lights in the ceiling sounded unusually loud. As they neared the stairs, Jake spoke up.
“I don’t think Mom likes the stories Grandpa tells us.”
Before Nick could answer, a loud roar filled the air and made them both jump. Jake cried out and grabbed his brother.
“The Yule Cat!”
They turned as one, hearts pounding, expecting to see the ferocious man-eating beast coming toward them.
And found only an empty room.
The bellow of the imaginary cat changed into the whoosh of rushing air, and they understood how they’d been fooled.
“The furnace,” Nick said.
“Maybe we should go back to bed.” The safety of his bedroom suddenly seemed a lot more appealing to Jake than even a whole plate of cookies.
“Why? Afraid the Krampus is gonna get you?”
“That’s not funny. Grandpa says he’s real.”
“We used to think Santa was real too. So if Santa’s not real, how can any of the other stories be?”
“I guess.” Jake looked unconvinced. “But Grandpa said—”
“Grandpa says a lot of stuff because he thinks we’re still little kids. It’s all just made up. You don’t believe in ghosts or closet monsters, do you?”
“No…but that doesn’t mean he’s always wrong.”
“Oh yeah? Well, if the Krampus is real, how come nobody at school ever heard of him?”
“I dunno.” Jake wished his brother would just shut up. “But I still think we should go back to bed. If we get caught, we’ll be in big trouble.”
“You’re just being a baby. No one’s gonna—”
“Wait. Did you hear that?”
“What?” Nick looked around. “I didn’t hear anything.”
“Shhhh. Listen.”
Both boys held their breath. Except for the deep hum of the furnace, the basement remained empty of sound. Jake began to wonder if his ears had played tricks on him
Then he heard it again.
Bells.
The cheerful tinkling of Christmas bells, like the ones at the bottom of the tree upstairs and in the cheery Christmas songs that played on the radio every ten minutes.
Jake glanced at the stairs, but no one was there.
“It’s coming from outside,” Nick said, pointing at one of the windows. The boys stood up and tried to see out, but the window was too high and the night too dark.
“Maybe it’s Santa!” Belief surged back to life inside Jake. Their parents had been wrong. Santa did exist.
“But it’s not Christmas.”
“So? He came early.”
Nick shook his head. “Santa doesn’t come early.”
“Then what is it?”
Nick shook his head and then stopped. His eyes lit up and he smiled.
“I’ll bet it’s Mom and Dad putting presents out in the garage. That’s where they’ve been hiding them.”
“Why would they do it at night?”
“I don’t know. But they’ll be back any minute. C’mon. We gotta get upstairs before they see us.”
“Why don’t we just hide here?”
“You can hide here. And when you get caught, I’ll get all your Christmas presents.” Nick made a face at him and then went up the stairs.
Jake hesitated then decided he’d rather be grounded with his brother than be alone in the basement, which suddenly seemed very dark and creepy, despite the lights. He tiptoed up the stairs and found Nick standing in the kitchen, frowning in the dim glow from the Christmas tree in the living room. No other lights were on, and the house was just as quiet as earlier.
“There’s nobody here,” Nick whispered.
Ring-a-ling-ling.
Nick turned. The bells were louder now, the jingling right outside the back door. He reached for the knob.
“Don’t!”
Nick stopped. “Why not?”
“What if it’s Krampus?” Saying the word sent a chill down Jake’s neck and made him shiver.
Nick rolled his eyes. “Krampus is just another dumb, old story. Besides, how could he sneak up on people if he went around ringing bells?”
Before Jake could object again, Nick opened the door. A gust of freezing wind blew in carrying the last of the night’s snowflakes with it. Nick stepped outside, Jake at his heels, arms crossed over his chest to block the cold. Fresh snow crunched under their slippers.
Jingle-ling-ding.
Jake looked to his left just in time to see a large shadow disappear around the corner of the house, leaving him with an empty yard and a fleeting image of an animal with long legs and dark fur and antlers.
“Did you see—?”
“A reindeer!” This time Jake led the way, running across the yard, unmindful of the frigid air biting at his face and neck.
They rounded the corner and came to an abrupt stop at the sight of not a reindeer but a goat, the biggest goat they’d ever seen. Its horns pointed up like twin spikes and its amber eyes glowed in the silver moonlight seeping through the clouds. It shook its head and snorted, and the string of bells around its neck tinkled and chimed.
“Well, well, how lucky are we? Sneaking out to follow our bells when you should be fast asleep? You two lads must not be right in the head.”
Nick and Jake turned in unison at the rough, guttural voices. Standing behind them were two figures their own height but heavier. The strangers wore black pants and boots, and green leather coats whose tall, peaked hoods hid their faces.
“Who are you?” Nick asked.
One of the strangers laughed and pulled his hood back, revealing a nightmare face, lumpy and misshapen. Ragged tufts of hair sprouted at odd places on his chin and cheeks. His eyes shined yellow like the goat’s.
“Our names do not matter. But our good fortune does, finding two more fools for the feast.”
Jake tried to shout for help but something struck him in the back, knocking him into the snow. Strong hands grabbed him and pulled a heavy sack over his head. A muffled gasp and a thud told him the strangers had gotten Nick too. Someone lifted him into the air while he struggled to regain his breath.
No, not someone. They were elves. But not Santa’s elves. Something much worse.
He had time for one last thought before a heavy object hit the back of his head.
Grandpa was right.
Anders Bach knew something was wrong the moment he opened his eyes. Despite the heat running full blast—he could h
ear the roar of the furnace through the grate next to his bed—the air had a nasty chill to it. His first thought was that a window had broken during the night. Over the years, he’d seen it happen more than once, old glass no longer able to take the strain of subzero temperatures. With a groan, he tossed the covers back and sat up, his seventy-seven-year-old bones protesting each movement, the way they did every morning before he took his arthritis medicine.
With his body no longer protected by three layers of blankets, the frosty air roused him to full wakefulness. It struck him that the draft he’d felt was more than chilly. It was downright cold. With the vision of a shattered picture window motivating him to move faster, he donned his robe and slippers and hurried towards the doorway, knowing he’d be the first person to discover the problem. The rest of the family had a tendency to sleep late on the weekends.
Lazy. The whole verdammt generation. In my day—
Anders stopped. From where he stood, he could see the entire living room. A dull-gray dawn struggled to get through the frost and snow covering the outside of the windows, leaving most of the room in shadows. However, it illuminated the glass well enough to show none of the panes were broken.
Yet the air had grown even colder.
Anders turned in a slow circle, his hands out to feel the direction of the draft.
The kitchen.
He paused, wondering if he’d been mistaken about a broken window. Perhaps Anna or Paul had simply gotten up early and stepped outside to get the paper, leaving the back door open in the process.
“Ah, it’s still a waste of heat. Do they think money grows on trees?” More annoyed now than worried, he entered the kitchen. Sure enough, the back door stood wide open, filling the room with chill winter air. Lazy. He went to close it, his eyes automatically scanning the driveway to see who’d been such a fool.
He froze before his hand reached the knob.
